Two Women

Twenty-Four

‘Yes?’

The voice was relaxed to Alice’s knock. Alice could imagine Jane lying back in the bath, soaking. ‘I’m leaving some pants outside the door. A sweater. And some underwear.’

‘That’s kind.’

‘We’re about the same size.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m going to get cleaned up myself now. Get ready to go.’

‘All right.’ Still relaxed.

Alice had run her own bath before collecting up the change of clothes for Jane. She lowered herself carefully, ribs aching, into the water, hotter than she normally had it, hoping the heat would ease away the discomfort of her retching. Where would she be sleeping, bathing, tomorrow morning? Not this early, she hoped. But safe. Both of them hidden away where no one could find them. She’d handled it very badly, Alice conceded. It was hardly a situation that could have been handled well but she should have done better than she had. Nothing she could do about it now. A pity that John had always insisted on showering and shaving in the second bathroom – You need your space in the morning, because you’re a grouch! She didn’t think she had been: hoped she hadn’t. There was so much she wished for, so much it was impossible to turn back the clock to correct. Put right. Alice’s mind butterflied, from thought to thought. When was she due? She couldn’t remember. Hadn’t bothered with notes in diaries because she was always so regular since undergoing treatment by Rosemary Pritchard, every twenty-eight days, almost always conveniently in the morning, maybe a passing twinge but never any serious stomach cramps. One of my luckiest patients, Rosemary Pritchard had called her. Warned her, too, sometimes, when she’d admitted being careless about her contraception, but she hadn’t been careless, certainly not before John died as far as she could recall. Hadn’t bothered, afterwards. No need to bother, ever again. She’d never go with another man. The idea revolted her, like so much else so easily, sickeningly, revolted her. Easy enough to understand why she was being sick. The fear from what she’d gone through. Was still going through – and she still knew what could happen to her, although at that moment she didn’t feel frightened. She was, of course. Subconsciously. That’s what it was, subconscious, justified fear. But all about to disappear today.

Alice felt fine, not sick at all, when she got out of the bath and put her jeans and sweater back on. A quarter before eight, she saw, when she restrapped her watch. She’d wait until eight, to ensure Gene Hanlan would be at the field office, although there’d probably be a contact arrangement to reach him at any time. Should she pack anything? It made obvious sense because although she was going to be protected there wouldn’t be an opportunity to buy new things so quickly and she’d need fresh clothes, fresh underwear. Jane would be able to get what she needed packed for her, by one of the staff at East 62nd Street, and collected by someone from the Bureau. No cause to concern herself any more about Jane.

Jane was sitting in one of the fireplace chairs, barefoot like Alice, when Alice re-emerged into the main room, and Alice’s first thought was that she was relaxed. If she had known, it would have all been different. Jane was looking around, her head moving with the intensity with which she was examining everything. Jane said: ‘Pity it didn’t work out.’

‘What?’

‘You and your partner. This is the sort of place a couple could be very happy in, hidden away from everyone, everything.’

‘We were.’ Alice’s throat was dry.

‘What did he do?’

‘Architect,’ said Alice, the first thing that came into her head.

‘In Manhattan?’

‘Trenton. He has his own practice.’ It would only be for today but she had to remember, not change the story.

‘He design this place? It’s cute.’

‘No,’ she said. Then, hurrying: ‘I’ve got eggs and some ham, although the bread’s not fresh. You want some breakfast before we go?’

‘I want to make calls before we go.’

‘Yes, of course, we’ll call the Bureau.’

‘And Rosemary Pritchard,’ insisted Jane.

‘It wasn’t intended as a positive deceit, although I guess it was,’ said Alice. ‘You’ll understand when we get to the Bureau.’

‘I need to understand now.’

‘Let’s get breakfast,’ Alice tried to avoid.

‘Let’s get breakfast and talk now, so I’ll understand,’ insisted Jane.

Bizarrely, they prepared breakfast together easily, Jane setting the table and making the coffee, Alice putting out the ham and scrambling eggs, which meant she could talk mostly turned away from the other woman, concentrating upon the stove. Alice once more referred to Northcote being tricked into involvement and used the phrase organized crime and said the details had been in some office archives that had been made available to her. She’d immediately told John – ‘Like I said, he was the liaison between your father and me’ and gave him what she’d found and she understood he’d put them in a safe deposit in Citibank. Alice listened to her own words and decided it was close enough to the truth and sounded a great deal better than her first stumbled attempt.

‘What you call a trick, you mean my father did some work for gangsters, without knowing who or what they were?’

‘That’s what it looked like. As soon as I realized the significance I gave it to John, without reading it all.’ Almost true, Alice consoled herself.

‘A long time ago?’ pressed Jane.

‘That’s what John thought, from some other stuff he found.’

‘And which neither he nor my father told me about! But you know all about it.’

Alice saw her lifeline and seized it. ‘I know about some of it because I was the person who came across it first: before I realized the significance I even made a few computer enquiries. It could have been embarrassing for the firm. That’s surely why they didn’t tell you, until they’d sorted it out.’

The look on Jane’s face on the opposite side of the long table was quizzical but not as openly suspicious as it had been earlier.

‘If all this happened a long time ago why are you – we – hiding now?’

There was an explanation here, too! ‘I told you, before I realized what I’d come across I made a few computer enquiries. They must have picked them up.’

‘Serious organized crime?’

‘I don’t know who they are. Names, I mean. But professional, certainly.’

‘How do you know that, if you don’t have names?’

‘It’s what John thought. Another reason for not telling you: not wanting to frighten you.’

‘What reason would there be for neither my father nor John telling me about this book you’re writing?’

The suspicion – the disbelief – was back! ‘I don’t know.’ Pleading ignorance was all that she could do: all that it was safe to do.

‘How much have you written?’

‘None, yet. I was just collating material.’ Alice hoped her face wasn’t shiny from the sort of perspiration she could feel on her back.

‘You got the material here? I’d like to read it.’

‘It’s in New York.’ She had to stop this! Get away!

‘Pity. I’d like to have seen it. Maybe some other time.’

‘Maybe.’ Alice thrust up from the table, collecting up her plate and mug. ‘We should get moving.’

‘There’s a call I need to make.’

‘Two,’ said Alice. ‘Mine first.’ It was time to speak to Gene Hanlan. Get everything over with.

Alice was bewildered by what happened, how it happened. She was conscious of Jane behind her as she dialled the Federal Plaza number but didn’t expect the abrupt hand over her shoulder to snatch away the telephone the moment she’d finished punching the number. By the time that happened – Alice close enough to hear the answering identification as the FBI herself – Jane had come from behind, to look down at her, and Alice saw the tension go from Jane’s face.

‘My name is Jane Carver. I want the agent-in-charge,’ and then, instantly: ‘I want to know your name.’ Jane’s face relaxed even further. She said: ‘I am all right. She’s told me who she is, a lot of other things.’

There was a pause, while she listened, and now Alice couldn’t hear the other end. She rose from the desk chair, gesturing Jane into it. It wasn’t important who made the contact, just that it was made and their being brought in was arranged. Jane sat. Alice watched.

Jane said: ‘Was my father tricked? That’s what Alice says,’ and listened again.

Then: ‘Was my father murdered? My husband? Janice?’ There was some frowning head-shaking at whatever reply Hanlan gave. Jane said: ‘Only me?’ and then quickly: ‘I’ll call my lawyers, to block that. So don’t try.’ She smiled up at Alice and said: ‘She’s here,’ and handed over the telephone.

Hanlan said: ‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘You tell me. And I mean just that – tell me.’

Jane had walked away from the desk, to be near the outside door, but was looking at her intently.

‘I told her we’d reopened the investigation into the deaths of her father and Janice Snow. But not her husband.’

‘Why? ’

‘To get her in. To get you both in. We know you’re somewhere around Bearfort: you marked your photographs at Princes Street. Someone got there ahead of us. They know you’re there, too. They’ll be looking.’

‘We’re leaving right away.’

‘Don’t! I’ll have people at Paterson within an hour. Tell me where you are. We’ll come for you.’

‘Four miles out of West Milford, on the main mountain road. It’s the fourth track, unmarked, on the left. There’s a green mailbox. The name’s Snelling. How long?’

‘Two hours, tops.’

‘Hurry!’

‘Two hours. What’s your telephone number there?’

Alice told him and physically sagged with relief as she put down the telephone, smiling up at the still expressionless Jane. ‘They’re on their way. All we’ve got to do is wait.’

‘How long?’ asked Jane, echoing Alice’s question.

‘Two hours.’

‘West Milford is just four miles away. We could be there and back in less than an hour. There was only one left in your box.’

‘Didn’t Gene tell you there were people looking for me?’

‘You any idea of the size of the Bearfort range? Less than an hour. Please.’

‘You haven’t made your call.’

‘It can wait.’

There was something she could get from a pharmacy, too, Alice thought. It was worrying her.

‘I don’t believe it!’ erupted Hanlan. ‘I don’t fucking believe it!’

‘What?’ asked Ginette Smallwood.

‘Jane Carver! She doesn’t think she’s in any danger! And when I told her I could get a court order to open her husband’s safe deposit she threatened to block me, in court!’

‘I heard what you told her,’ said the woman. And had believed it to have been a mistake as the man spoke. She said: ‘You’d better tell Washington there’ll be opposition, to cover your ass.’

‘Let’s bring them in first. I’ll wait until then before speaking to Washington about court orders. Probably won’t even have to, after I convince her I’ve saved her life.’

Hanlan’s irritation deepened when he reached Patrick McKinnon on his cellphone to be told that the early morning rush hour had been worse than they’d anticipated and that the FBI team were still at least an hour short of Paterson, which made West Milford nearer two and a half hours away, without any allowance for finding the track to the cabin.

Ginette said: ‘They’re unpredictable, Alice certainly. Better warn them.’

Hanlan let the cabin number ring unanswered for five full minutes before slamming the receiver back on the rest. He said: ‘Shit, they’ve run! What the fuck do they think they’re doing?’

‘The bad guys get them first, they’re dead. We are, too.’

‘Get back to vehicle registration,’ insisted Hanlan. ‘Tell them it’s become a major emergency. I’ll tell Pat.’

Which Hanlan did and which was how the Cavalcante Family, who’d had people using cellphone scanners since the identification of the Bearfort area, heard for the first time the name Jane Carver. They also heard, on Hanlan’s second call, the repeated directions to the cabin four miles outside West Milford. And that Alice Belling was there, too.

The Cavalcante consigliere, Tony Caputo, was waiting impatiently for Charlie Petrie at the top-floor entrance to the elevator in the Family-owned office block overlooking the Delaware. The building was secure enough for Caputo to start talking even before they regained his suite. By the time they actually reached it Petrie knew every detail of the interception. He’d come all the way from New York because the escalating emergency demanded it but it made him appear like someone at the centre of everything that was happening, which was how he wanted to emerge.

Petrie said: ‘You did good, Tony. Very good.’

Caputo, who knew very precisely just how well his organization had done, said: ‘You didn’t tell us the FBI were involved.’

‘Because we didn’t know,’ admitted Petrie. It ratcheted up the stakes by at least a 100 per cent. There had to be an immediate consiglieri conference, as soon as he got back to New York: conceivably a full Mafia Commission gathering, attended by as many Dons as the capo di tuttii capi decreed. It would probably be most of them because most of them had used the Northcote laundry at one time or another.

‘We get this wrong, we got a major, nationwide disaster,’ said Caputo. He was a slightly built, compact man who enjoyed the trappings of his unquestioned authority, four gold rings to match the gold neck-chain and identity bracelet.

‘We already knew that, before the Bureau involvement.’

‘We’ve got people closer. We should get to the cabin first. What do you want we should do when we get them?’

Petrie did not respond at once, uncomfortable at being the man identifiably making the decisions on behalf of so many. ‘Just get them away, from the cabin and the FBI. The Carver woman’s our key. Literally.’ But how to use her? Maybe he wouldn’t need to, if Burcher got it right. He wouldn’t tell the lawyer: let him go on as they’d decided that morning.

‘What about the other one, Alice Belling?’

‘We’ve got to sweat her, until she can’t be sweated any more, to find out what she knows. Which we think is a hell of a lot. We’ve got to get it all, however long it takes and however hard – for her – it has to be.’

‘OK,’ accepted Caputo.

‘And then she gets whacked,’ ordered Petrie.

‘OK,’ agreed Caputo, again. ‘You want to eat something? A drink?’

Petrie shook his head. ‘I had breakfast.’